In the shadows deep within the palace walls, two ethereal figures stood silently beside the green tiles under the eaves, their robes like misty water, rippling almost imperceptibly in the night breeze.
Even the moss growing underfoot remained undisturbed, as if they were an integral part of the night.
In the distance, the Emperor Emeritus and the Emperor's entourage gradually disappeared into the distance, and the bright yellow palace lanterns formed a flowing river of light in the dark night.
The footsteps of the palace servants, the soft clatter of armor, and the clinking of jade pendants gradually faded with the wind, until the warm light disappeared into the intersection of the vermilion pillars and the flying eaves.
At this moment, a faint smile appeared on the lips of one of the phantom figures. The smile was like moonlight falling on a calm lake, gentle and tender, even softening the corners of their eyebrows.
The other ethereal figure had a calm face like an ancient jade that had stood for centuries, with a cool and serene look between its brows and eyes, and a taut jawline.
Yet, a subtle warmth lingered in his eyes—like half a cup of snow melting on the eaves in the dead of winter, concealing a touch of tenderness.
The wind rustles through the copper bells on the eaves, making a soft "ding-ling" sound, as crisp as a rattle in a child's hand.
Before the words were even finished, the two figures vanished as quietly as morning dew meeting the rising sun, leaving not a trace of their presence or even a single garment.
Only the soft rustling of the night wind through the green tiles seemed to whisper the story of standing there, a gentle illusion woven by the night and moonlight, which had never truly existed.
No one noticed that the Crown Princess, who had just received the decree to "go back and rest" and was supposed to return to Ninghui Palace, was now clinging to the vermilion pillar carved with lotus vines not far away.
She only dared to show half of her round little face. The hem of her palace dress was still covered with damp moss from the corridor, and the lotus embroidery on the hem was moistened with water, making the colors appear even brighter.
The pearl tassel tied in her hair hung down in front of her shoulders, each pearl round and full, swaying gently with her soft breathing.
Occasionally, they would collide, producing a sound even more delicate than the copper bells on the eaves.
Those dark, round eyes were wide open, like black grapes soaked in morning dew, with the corners still bearing the lingering redness from when they apologized in the warm pavilion.
At this moment, her eyes were filled with astonishment—she recognized the appearance of one of the phantom figures!
Last month, her grandmother took her to the imperial mausoleum for a sacrificial ceremony. In that side hall, which had been locked for a hundred years and only opened during major ceremonies, hung an ancient painting that had never been dusted.
The frame is made of sandalwood, with intricate cloud patterns carved along the edges.
The figure in the painting is dressed in a dark-colored casual robe, sitting upright in front of a rosewood desk, holding a wolf-hair brush in his hand, as if about to put brush to paper sprinkled with gold.
The man had eyebrows like ink paintings, warm eyes, a high nose bridge, and soft lips; his cool demeanor concealed a touch of approachability.
She is very much like the regent Qin Qianluo, whom the Grand Tutor repeatedly mentioned when lecturing on the history of the previous dynasty, who was described as "benevolent, diligent in his duties, and loving to his people like his own children."
The Grand Tutor said that when the Regent was alive, he often went to the porridge shop on the street to have a bowl of hot porridge and went to the fields to watch the farmers plant rice seedlings.
He once said, "Governing a country is like cooking porridge; the heat and the rice and water must be balanced."
There's also the jade paperweight on my father's desk in his study, passed down for countless generations, with a human figure carved in shallow relief on it, whose eyebrows and eyes are just like that.
Even the posture of raising the hand to hold the pen and the curve of the sleeve hanging down are exactly the same.
The other day she sneaked into the imperial study to play, and even lay on the desk, pointing at the portrait on the paperweight and asking her father, "Who is this? He's so handsome."
The Emperor was reviewing memorials at the time. Upon hearing this, he looked up, smiled, and patted her head.
"He is the regent, the only regent in the Ning Dynasty, a prince whose heart and soul are devoted to the people."
At that moment, the image of that phantom overlapped with the figures in the painting and on the paperweight, making her little heart pound so hard it felt like it was going to burst out of her chest.
Her small hands, clutching the hem of her skirt, trembled slightly, her fingertips pinching the satin so hard they created deep wrinkles, her knuckles turning white.
Several times I wanted to tiptoe over and ask if the phantom really came out of the painting.
Do you also know that the osmanthus flowers on the west corner of the palace wall are in full bloom? Have you also tasted the steamed sweet cheese made by Granny Zhang in the imperial kitchen?
The sesame seeds that Granny Zhang made were sprinkled with osmanthus flowers that she picked herself!
But the soles of my feet seemed rooted to the spot, firmly planted in place, and I didn't dare to move even my toes.
She was afraid that if she ran over, the phantom would vanish like a butterfly in a dream with the slightest touch.
She was also afraid that her breathing would be too loud and disturb the secret hidden in the night, so that her grandmother and father would not know.
So he could only hide his face behind the pillar even further, leaving only his dark, bright eyes staring longingly in the direction where the phantom had disappeared, not daring to even breathe loudly.
Her brows furrowed slightly. Suddenly, she remembered something, and her eyes lit up like lit lanterns, even the redness at the corners of her eyes faded a bit.
Her grandmother loved her the most and knew the palace's old stories best—last winter night, her grandmother sat by the brazier in the warm pavilion and told her the story of the regent.
Grandmother must know the origin of this phantom!
She could no longer contain herself, turned around and ran towards the Emperor Emeritus's warm chamber with her short legs, the pearls in her hair jingling as she ran.
The crisp sound was like a string of little bells urging people to hurry on their way, exceptionally clear in the quiet night.
As she ran across the corridor, she almost tripped over the threshold. She quickly reached out to hold onto a pillar to steady herself before continuing to run, her little face full of eagerness and curiosity.
She wanted to ask her grandmother, the regent whom she had only seen in paintings, paperweights, and stories, whether she had ever been like her.
I chased butterflies under the palace walls and corridors, and sat under the osmanthus tree on Mid-Autumn Festival nights, counting the waxing and waning of the moon.
Did you ever impulsively interrupt in class, only to be gently shaken by the teacher and told "you've broken the rules," and then apologize with reddened eyes?
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